


Lodestar

by RhetoricFemme



Series: JeanMarco World War II AU [3]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, Post-War, WW II AU, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28352142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhetoricFemme/pseuds/RhetoricFemme
Summary: He listened to the pleasant crunch of six a.m. gravel beneath his boots, focused on looking anywhere other than straight ahead.
Relationships: Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein
Series: JeanMarco World War II AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1429804
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Lodestar

The sun had come out that morning, its rays bouncing off the water and through the cabin windows of the 1934 purse seiner Jean had inherited from his father. Unable to get back to sleep, Marco had exited the cabin quietly, so as to not wake Jean.

Another late night threatening to slide off into sleeplessness and introspective banter, they’d found themselves lulled away by a graciously quiet night on the bay. Jean had fallen asleep sooner than expected, an unwilling participant in his own body’s desire for rest. But that was what sleeping on the water did for him. Between the alcohol in his blood and the sweet lull of the evening waves, Jean had been out in no time.

Marco had gladly claimed an empty bunk for himself after, having successfully humored that recently developed habit. The one where he made sure Jean had everything he needed before allowing himself the comfort of bed.

He’d pledged himself to Jean in this quiet little way. It wasn’t as if Jean would find anyone else to relate to in terms of his fatalistic agitation. There were a few fishermen who could see where wandering young men such as Jean were coming back from.

But just as they understood the depthless grey light in Jean’s eyes, so Jean could see it in theirs, and in this way they acknowledged grisly commiseration before going their separate ways.

The vast majority of individuals would never come close to dreaming up the atrocities Jean had been a part of. Nor the ones Marco had been involved in, really. He could admit that much to himself. There was no need to elaborate to anyone that a combat medic’s armband lost its protections the minute he opened fire, even if ironically enough, it’d been in the name of saving a life.

So when life saw fit to buckle down on them, weighing particularly hard on every part of Jean’s heart or mind, Marco made a point to be there.

Ignoring the curious eyes and hardened stares that came when he’d light Jean a cigarette off of his own. The over-the-shoulder glances that accompanied the terse fact that some nights, Jean simply felt better when Marco let him stand especially close.

Pub goers would stare. But there wasn’t a single person in this port town who dared question him. And when or if they ever did, Marco couldn’t think of a single answer he owed any of them.

He should have known something was amiss when he’d woken to the overly generous warm rays of the sun. Marco had rarely experienced such a traditionally beautiful morning since moving to Puget Sound. Nor had been looking for it. He’d long since taken to finding beauty elsewhere in the world.

In the worst ways possible, the over-the-top grandeur of this particularly sunny morning reminded him all too much of the life he’d left back on the East Coast.

Leaving Jean to continue his sleep, Marco made quick work of his shirt buttons. Put in minimal effort in smoothing his hair down, making haste for his truck on the other side of the boardwalk.

It was still early for a weekend morning, Marco told himself. There would be no qualm with bypassing his apartment and sliding into a fresh pair of trousers once reaching the sanctity of his shop.

His shop. The securely locked doors and windows of the business he’d sunk every dime into and had worked so damn hard for.

There’d been something indescribably wicked the night before in the eyes of the town’s young drunks. The beer-stilted, but still turning cogs of prejudiced and inebriated minds.

Jean had found himself singled out by at least one of them, as he typically did. By the time Marco had caught up to him, Jean had become careless with word games on his tongue and a sardonic bite of fuck-all waiting in the back of his throat.

That was where Marco had come in, and none too soon, as the energy had been palpable.

Because there is no good way to call out the favorite son of the industrial side of town, even when he’s known for having too smart a mouth. Not when he doubles as the local boy-who-came-home, the storyless son of valor, who just may or may not also be getting away with living his life as a queer.

Marco had found Jean fearless with laughter, even while being held up by his lapels, his feet barely touching the ground. Marco was all stealth when coming from behind, ready to catch Jean’s fall when his assailant decided it’d be better to loosen his grip on Jean’s collar.

Even then, Marco refused to provide an explanation for the hand cradling Jean’s neck while he expelled the contents of his stomach. He wouldn’t provide outsiders validation for the way he addressed Jean with an unnecessarily gentle tone.

They’d retreated to the boat for the night, where Marco had dutifully put his friend to bed.

Now, Marco drove down the street opposite of the carpentry business he’d started entirely on his own. Parked in the alley behind his shop, intent on rounding the corner as casual as he could manage, talking his nerves down to something akin to normalcy.

He listened to the pleasant crunch of six a.m. gravel beneath his boots, focused on looking anywhere other than straight ahead. 

But that sunlight. Shining brilliantly in every direction off a veritable sea of broken glass was all it had taken for Marco to realize his efforts were to no avail.

The door to the shop had remained locked. Inside, beneath a pile of debris hid the telltale rock that had initiated what anyone would agree had been a pointed, vicious attack.

Splintered chair legs lay beneath their collapsed seats. Shards of cedar ran both in and out of the building, belonging to toppled works-in-progress. An expensive, ornate commission seemed to have taken the brunt of the damage, and Marco couldn’t help but imagine he knew the people behind the entire debacle.

Life proceeded in a blur.

A few incredulous breaths, and a telephone call to the authorities relaying what meager details Marco had to share. He’d declined help with the cleanup.

Marco had made certain choices, and now this would be his burden to bear.

He’d start with the sidewalks, sweeping and disposing of the glass (anything to take away the sunlight’s glaring advantage), and work his way back inside.

More than an hour passes this way, when Marco finally hears the sounds of other people in the vicinity. Keeping his head down, whether they be passersby or someone come to check in on him remains a mystery, until a familiar pair of boots stops directly in front of Marco’s feet.

Jean is in the same clothes Marco left him in. Tired but rested, and with twice the fight in his eyes as there had been the previous night, he’s brought a handful of men with him. When one or two of them seem vaguely familiar Jean identifies them as Reiner Braun and Mike Zacharius—leaders of the local fishermen's union, as well as a few more trusted friends.

Without a word, Jean picks up the bucket of glass at Marco’s feet, empties it into a larger bin one of the union members had brought with.

Their eyes lock and Jean offers a confident, cocksure little grin so potent that Marco barely notices when the broom handle is taken from his white-knuckled grip.

He knows now what he’d known from the start.

That as long as Jean and this little port town are still here at the end of the day, Marco will never doubt that he’s finally come home.


End file.
